Raffaele
Blood coats my hands as I step into my car. The metallic smell fills the cabin until I crack the window. The blood isn’t mine, and it pisses me off it’s staining my car.
The man who thought he could withhold payment from the Russo family won’t be making that mistake again. Not only is he not alive to bother me again, he paid for keeping me out so fucking late.
For the first time since Mom died, I’m not reveling in spilling blood and teaching lessons to those who need it. No, I’d much rather be home playing chess with Alina. See the way she chews on her bottom lip when she’s deep in concentration.
I wipe my hands on a black handkerchief and toss it into the glove compartment.
Another debt collected.
As I drive home, I call Ian and ask him to get my car fully cleaned tomorrow. Driving around with other people’s DNA in your car is just begging for trouble. Although we own Cleveland PD, one should never get sloppy.
The dashboard clock reads two seventeen in the morning. I’ve been working for twenty straight hours, overseeing shipments at the docks and handling a particularly stubborn debtor who required personal attention.
My muscles ache for rest, but my mind is already racing home. Toher.
The gates to my property slide open as I approach, recognizing the car. As I pull into the garage, I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the tension from the day. The house is quiet when I enter through the side door.
I don’t need to check the cameras to know Alina’s already waiting in the library. Even though she doesn’t know my comings or goings, I know from the security cameras she walks into the library around midnight every night.
I have no idea how she can tell the time, but she’s usually pretty punctual. And I join her as soon as I can. It’s shaping up to be a damn good tradition. Not only because I get to ask her questions, but she also seems less anxious around me.
Which is perfect. I don’t want my future wife to fear me.
Once inside the house, I make my way upstairs first, taking a quick shower to wash away the blood and grime of the day. The hot water pounds against my skin, and I close my eyes, allowing myself just a few minutes of stillness before I seek her out.
Clean and dressed, I head toward the library. But before I make it there, I bump into Susan as she leaves the kitchen.
“Mr. Russo,” she greets me.
“What are you doing up this late?” I ask, but then I notice the shaking in her hands. “Is the pain keeping you up?”
Scoffing, she rolls her eyes. “You should worry more about the girl than me,” she huffs. “For the past two days she’s kept asking where you are and why you aren’t eating with her. You can’t keep avoiding her if you really mean to make her your wife.”
Grinning, I tell Susan goodnight and suggest she sleeps in tomorrow. I’ve already told her my plans, just as she knows why I’m not joining Alina for meals even when I’m in the house. The decision needs to be hers. And if I crowd her, I’ll end up deciding for her.
Reaching the library, the crackling fire greets me with its familiar snap and pop. And there she is. She’s sleeping on the sofa, her red hair spilling across the cushion in copper waves. She’s clutching a book to her chest.
Not just any book, a chess strategy guide from my collection.
The fire casts her skin in amber light, softening the worry lines that typically crease her forehead. Her lips are slightly parted, and I find myself staring at them, remembering their softness and hunger.
I move closer, studying her while she can’t guard herself against my gaze. The freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks stand out against her pale skin, like dots I want to trace with my fingertips.
Her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, and the shirt she arrived in has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone.
My fingers itch to touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin. Part of me wants to let her sleep, to preserve this rare moment of tranquility. But a stronger part wants her awake. Wants her eyes on me. Wants to watch her mind work as she plots her moves on the chessboard.
I reach out, my hand hovering over her shoulder for a brief moment before I make contact. Her skin is warm beneath my palm as I squeeze gently.
“Alina,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Wake up, Piccola.”
She startles awake, the book tumbling to the floor as she bolts upright. Her eyes, wide and disoriented, dart around the room before settling on me. Recognition floods her face, followed by a flash of something else.
“Raffaele,” she breathes. “I was waiting for you.”
I retrieve the chess book from the floor, my fingers brushing against hers as I hand it back. “Studying my weaknesses?” I grin, tapping the book’s cover.
